Love and Pain and All That Stuff
by Arianna18
Summary: Hardcastle falls hard and fast for the new woman in his life ... and resents Mark's suspicions that she's hiding something.


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; the story is for fun, not profit

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; the story is for fun, not profit_

**LOVE AND PAIN AND ALL THAT STUFF**

_Original Script by Carol Mendelsohn_

_Narratization by Arianna_

_(For those who've read the script, I have to admit to making a few changes…)_

_With thanks to Suzanne for your generous donation to the STAR fund!_

_And with thanks to LML, Susan B, Shannon, Cheri, Jeanne and Michelle W., _

_for your donations as well!_

**ACT I:**

With the imagined finesse and agility of an NBA player, Mark dribbled the basketball across the pavement, shifting direction, whirling away, slowing and speeding up while holding off an imaginary guard with an out-flung arm as he drew closer and closer to the basket. "He shoots!" he breathed as he launched the ball, and then, punching the air, he shouted exuberantly when it sailed cleanly through the basket, "He scores!"

Grinning, he fielded the ball and was turning to take it back out again when he looked up and saw Hardcastle ambling past the court to his truck.

"Hey, Hardcase!" he called, but the Judge didn't seem to hear him. "Hey, Judge!" he called louder as he twirled the ball on one fingertip and continued hopefully. "How about a little two-man cut-throat? A dollar a point – play to twenty? Have to win by two?"

Hardcastle waved an arm in casual dismissal. "Some other time, kiddo. See ya," he replied over his shoulder as he carried on toward the truck.

"I'll let you take it out first," Mark wheedled with an impish grin.

"Some other time," Milt returned airily, and climbed into his vehicle. He waved as he started up the drive.

Wondering where he was going, Mark shrugged and turned back to his solitary game, once more launching the ball into the air to carom off the backboard.

The ball hit the backboard and then dropped sweetly down through the center of the basket, to the wild cheering of the hometown crowd. Their team was now just one point behind the challengers. But the last moments of the close, hotly-contested game were ticking down, with only seconds left in play. The crowd was on its feet, screaming encouragement and cheering raucously when one of their favorites stole the ball from an opposing player. The cheers rose to a roar when he whirled around, dribbling masterfully back toward the basket, dodging and dipping, and then passing to a teammate who was perfectly positioned to sink the ball for another two points – bringing their team into the lead by the narrow margin of one incredibly exciting point just as the buzzer sounded.

Milt laughed and cheered triumphantly with the rest, then quickly cut a glance at his companion, Kay Phillips, to reassure himself that she was having a good time. When he'd learned she enjoyed basketball, he'd invited her to the game as a friend, with no expectation of more. Though he'd not be indiscreet enough to ask her age, he knew she had to be a good twenty – and probably more – years younger than he was. But he'd have to be dead not to appreciate the beauty and vitality of her clear, porcelain skin. flushed now with excitement and pleasure, the riot of dark chestnut, glossy curls untouched by gray, and her lively, intelligent green eyes.

She caught his eye and smiled widely, her eyes sparkling as she looped an arm through his and leaned a little closer. And he would have had to been blind not to see the unexpected but very welcome affection, maybe even admiration, in her steady gaze. Fired by a curl of excitement and anticipation in his chest, warmed by her nearness and delighted by her enjoyment of the game, he smiled back.

Certain that he was very lucky to have met her, he felt younger – and oddly more alive – than he had in years.

Mark bounded into the house and checked the den, looking for Hardcastle, but the Judge wasn't there. Hearing water running and jaunty whistling, he followed the sounds to the small bathroom down the hall, where he found his friend shaving. Leaning on the frame of the open door and, getting a kick out of how cheerful Milt seemed, he grinned as he reached into his pocket. If Hardcase was feeling good now, he'd be feeling _terrific_ when he heard Mark had scored tickets for the game that night.

With the air of a magician pulling a conjuring trick, he whipped the tickets into view and crowed, "What do you think these are?"

Milt gave them a quick look in the mirror and shrugged. "Two tickets to Hawaii?" he suggested, but without much interest.

Feeling the first pang of uncertainty, Mark waved them and, beaming, revealed with unfeigned enthusiasm, "Better! Two fifth-row, _center ice_ tickets to _tonight's_ hockey game!"

"Terrific," Milt responded, but his tone was impersonal, distant … uncaring.

"Terrific?" Mark echoed, sure the Judge had to be putting him on, making him work for it. "It's _fantastic!_ Judge, we've been talking about this game for _weeks!_"

Milt wiped his face with a towel to remove the excess lather, and slapped on his aftershave. "Listen, why don't you call up what's-her-name and ask her? You know … that Disney character …."

"Bambi," Mark supplied, a small frown of consternation furrowing his brow. Milt was doing a darned good job of pretending he wasn't interested. But he _had_ to be interested. It hadn't been easy to get his hands on these tickets, and Mark had really been looking forward to the evening. For one reason or another, Hardcastle seemed to always be busy lately, always heading out on personal stuff, not saying where he was going, and Mark had hoped the game would give them a chance to spend some time together. Have some fun together. "And she's not crazy about sports where the players are missing their front teeth."

When Milt didn't say anything, just combed his hair, Mark went on uncertainly, "But if you can't make it, I'll give her a call…" He waited a beat, then another, and finally had to accept that Milt wasn't putting him on. The guy really wasn't interested in going to the game. Wondering for the umpteenth time what was going on with his friend, and beginning to also wonder if he should be worried, Mark asked, "Judge, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, kiddo," Milt assured him with a bright grin, then brushed past and headed right on out the door.

Mark gaped after him, and couldn't help the surge of disappointment he felt. Slumping, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and looked mournfully at the tickets before shoving them into his pocket. Crossing his arms, he bowed his head in thought, wondering what the heck was going on with Hardcastle. Catching the lingering scent of the Judge's best aftershave, he straightened, and then gazed thoughtfully into the bathroom. _Why does a guy shave and make himself smell good in the middle of the day? Because he'd got a date, that's why, you moron._ A slow smile spread across his face as he muttered with warm good nature, "You sly dog. You've been holding out on me."

But then, that wasn't surprising. For all that they'd grown close over the years, the Judge was still a very private guy. And he probably didn't want to be ragged on about the possibility of romance in his life. Well, whatever, Mark could well understand the priorities here and had no problem with them.

Straightening, he left the house and locked it up. With a glance up the drive, he murmured, "Good luck, Hardcase. Hope you have a really good time tonight." And then he headed back to the gatehouse to call Teddy. Bambi _really_ wouldn't enjoy the game. And these really _were_ great tickets, far too good to waste on someone who wouldn't appreciate them.

For the next month, Mark watched Milt and was amused by how perpetually ebullient his friend seemed to be these days. 'Good mood' didn't begin to describe Hardcastle's effervescent cheeriness. But as time wore on, and the Judge still continued to go off without any explanation, Mark's curiosity about this mystery woman began to grow. Though he told himself it was none of his business, he began to wonder why Milt just didn't tell him that he was seeing someone.

And he started to wonder just how serious it might be. He was tickled by the idea of the Judge maybe falling in love, maybe finding someone to spend the rest of his life with. But he was also getting just a little worried. Who was she? Was she good enough for Hardcase? And why wasn't the Judge talking about her? Letting him in on it?

Those last questions left Mark feeling uncomfortable. They were friends, right? Of course, they were, and Mark didn't want to feel resentful about being shut out. But it was beginning to bother him that Hardcastle was acting as if it was none of his business, and didn't even seem to think it necessary to give any explanation when he disappeared for hours at a time just about every day. Was Milt still worried that Mark might tease him, and not want to deal with that? Could be, Mark guessed. But _surely_ the old donkey had to know that he would only be happy for him if Milt had really found 'Miss Right'.

If she really was 'Miss Right', and not some gold-digger.

Mark tried to push that thought away. Milt was no fool. And he was a darned good catch, even without the millions. Only made sense that women would find him attractive. Was probably only surprising that he'd been alone this long, and Mark knew a good part of the reason for that was that he'd still been grieving in his own way over Nancy. Maybe that was why Milt wasn't saying anything? Maybe Hardcastle was still feeling a little unsettled himself about getting involved with someone else. Maybe.

But Mark would feel a lot better if he knew who this woman was. He sure didn't want Hardcase to get his heart broken, especially not when it was so darned hard for the guy to risk his heart in the first place.

Milt and Kay left the theatre, just one couple in the swirling, well-heeled, society crowd heading home for the night. Though he wasn't exactly an opera buff, Kay had obviously enjoyed the production and, so far as he was concerned, that was the main thing. He looked down at her, willing to encourage her to talk about the performance regardless of the fact that he hadn't much enjoyed it himself, and he caught her looking nervously over her shoulder.

Frowning, he reflected that she did that a lot, especially when she thought he wasn't looking and wouldn't notice. Her furtive mannerism reminded him of the shadows he sometimes saw lurking in her eyes, and he knew in his gut that there was something she wasn't telling him; something that worried her, maybe even scared her. He hadn't asked and was hoping she'd soon trust him enough to confide whatever it was. Not that he was all that worried about it. Anyone who was serious trouble would have made themselves known in the past weeks; wouldn't only be lurking in the shadows, not after all this time. He just figured it was some jilted boyfriend who was maybe engaging in a bit of harmless stalking, someone he could easily handle and scare off if only she'd share her concern.

She looked up at him and smiled brightly, no trace of worry or fear in her eyes or face, which didn't entirely surprise him. He'd learned enough about her to appreciate that she was a proud and very private woman, as well as almost fiercely independent; a woman who felt strongly about taking care of herself. So, once again, he bit his tongue and didn't push for information she wasn't ready to share.

But he put a protective arm around her as he guided her through the crowd. If anyone _was_ watching, he wanted them to know that she wasn't alone.

And, besides, he liked having his arms around her. Smiling to himself, he reflected, as she leaned into his support, that she didn't seem to mind.

Milt hadn't been home when Mark got back from his evening class, not that his absence was anything unusual now. But Hardcastle was usually home by midnight – at the latest, one in the morning. At first, Mark had been amused to catch himself waiting up until the Judge was safely in for the night, snickering to himself about getting practice for when he had teenagers to worry about. Certainly, Hardcase would think he was nuts to be acting like a worried parent. But he'd been watching the Judge's back for so many years now that maintaining a gentle and benevolent surveillance of sorts was second nature to him. Though he knew it wasn't entirely rational, he just couldn't quite relax until he knew Hardcase was home, safe and sound. In any case, he waited up, using the time to study and write the endless papers required for school. He'd've probably been up anyway, even if Hardcastle wasn't out somewhere, tripping the light fantastic.

But that night, one AM came and went. Another hour passed, and then another – and Mark was getting seriously worried. And annoyed. Very annoyed. He knew Hardcase was probably out again with the mysterious Miss Right, and he knew it was none of his business, but he was getting fed up with being out of the loop. If this relationship was getting serious, and since it was now after three AM, he supposed it was, then he thought Hardcase should be saying something about it. Grimacing, he raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. 'Should' didn't seem right. Hardcastle didn't owe him anything. But … friends confided these things in one another, didn't they? At least gave some clue that something of

import was going on.

And it wasn't like Hardcastle to be out so late. What if he'd had an accident? What if he was in trouble?

Manfully, Mark resisted the urge to call the cops and put out an APB, and he refused to give way to his anxieties enough to begin phoning hospitals. But he was worried. Increasingly worried. And the worry fed his irritation.

Finally, at three-thirty, he slammed his textbook closed and left the gatehouse to storm up to the house. Enough of the games, the runaround, the rigmarole, the secrets and silence; he was tired of not knowing what the hell was going on, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. This time, when Hardcastle wandered in from who knew where, Mark wanted some answers.

He let himself into the dark house and took up position on the stairs, just in case he drifted off. He didn't want to inadvertently miss Hardcastle by falling asleep in the den. Time dragged, making him twitchy, and he wondered if maybe he _should_ call the police, to see if there had been an accident. He was working himself into a fever of anxiety by the time headlights flashed on the drive outside, and he heard the low rumble of the corvette pull up, then a brief silence before a door opened and closed, and footsteps made their way toward the house. Fuming, worry transforming into righteously indignant anger, he sat stiffly on the step, glowering into the darkness and waiting for Hardcastle to walk in.

As soon as the front door opened and closed, he ground out, "You mind telling me where you've been?"

The hall light flashed on, making him wince and squint against the sudden brightness. Hardcastle looked startled to see him there, and worry flashed in the Judge's eyes, as if he feared something was wrong as he demanded, "McCormick, what are you doing up?"

"I'm waiting for you," Mark retorted sharply. "It's after four in the morning. Where have you been?"

Stiffening at the inquisition, Hardcastle sniffed and his gaze shifted away. "I've been out."

"No kidding. Out _where_?" Mark probed, wanting some answers and wanting them now.

"Just out," Milt replied evasively. Then, as if mystified, he asked, "And what're you getting so upset about?"

"I'm not upset," Mark denied hotly, then realizing he was, he took a breath to calm down. But still feeling righteous, he charged, "You know, you could have called. You had me worried."

"Well, you can stop worrying," Hardcastle assured him, seeming to opt for geniality in the face of Mark's pique perhaps, Mark thought, to avoid an argument. "I'm home, and I'm tired. So, good night." With that, he stepped over and around Mark to march upstairs to his bedroom. At the top of the stairs, though, he pointedly switched off the light, leaving Mark in the dark – in more ways than one – and making it clear he hadn't much appreciated either the concern or the third degree.

Mark sat on the steps for a few more minutes, steaming in the darkness and debating whether to go upstairs and have it out. But he finally decided that neither of them were in any shape for a confrontation that would probably only deteriorate into a shouting match. Besides, Hardcastle wasn't some snot-nosed kid who was obliged to account for his time. He couldn't force the man to open up if he was determined not to share any information.

Resignedly, feeling weariness pull on him, he stood and left the house to walk slowly back to his own place. Just before he went inside, he turned back to look at the dark upper windows and told himself that he was tired of playing a guessing game. He wasn't going to wait much longer for answers. If Hardcastle didn't confide in him soon, he would do whatever was needed to find out what was going on, whether Hardcase wanted him to know or not.

The candlelit romance of the restaurant was a far cry from Barney's Beanery, but his steak looked good and Milt was hoping Kay would enjoy the setting. He looked up from his meal to smile at her, and was going to ask if she was happy with what the chef had prepared for her, but the words caught in his throat at the way she was looking at him. So direct and yet … he couldn't tell what she was thinking. As if she divined his uncertainty, she reached across the table to cover his hand intimately with her own.

His heart skipped a beat, and his chest tightened with the awareness that he was moving into deep water and would soon be in over his head. He cared for her a great deal, but was still worried that she hadn't confided much about herself, her past. Did it matter? He knew enough to know she was a good person, kind and compassionate, intelligent and funny, good company and, despite their age difference, their attraction was apparently very mutual. But … how far did he want this to go?

He turned his hand to hold hers, and gave the warm flesh in his clasp a gentle squeeze before letting go to pick up his knife and fork and cut into his steak.

Preoccupied by the same questions the next morning, it was a second or two before Milt realized the coffee he was pouring was overflowing the rim of the mug to pool on the table. Jerking back into the here and now, he saw McCormick give him a wry look as the kid reached over to wipe up the mess. Embarrassed, he muttered defensively, "Somethin's wrong with the coffee pot."

Mark snorted. "Give me a break. You've been spilling coffee, whistling Dixie, and shaving twice a day for the last six weeks." Quirking a brow, grinning widely, he asked, "What's her name?"

Avoiding his friend's eyes, uncomfortable with the direct question but not sure why, Milt grimaced and asked with as much feigned innocence as he could muster, "What're you talking about?"

"The woman who put a dent in your cologne budget," Mark retorted, sounding just a bit exasperated by his willful obtuseness … or deliberate evasion. "Come on, Judge," he continued, leaning forward on his elbow, his tone now lower, confidential and yet cajoling, "Man to man. Who have you been seeing?"

"Seein'? Who said I was seein' anybody?" he grumbled, sticking to his guns. Pretending not to see the flash of disappointment in McCormick's eyes, or the hurt uncertainty that followed, Milt picked up his mug and high-tailed it out of the kitchen to take refuge in his den. He didn't know why he was so unwilling to discuss Kay with Mark, but he just wasn't ready yet. Maybe because he still wasn't sure himself what was going on or how far it was going to go. Maybe he just wanted to enjoy his new friendship without having to dissect it or defend it – was that such a sin?

Mark was at the stove, keeping an half an eye on the eggs and sizzling bacon, while he sipped at a mug of coffee and scanned the morning headlines. Milt had been outright avoiding him for the last three days, ever since Mark had asked who she was. Okay, so maybe he was over-stepping his bounds and it wasn't any of his business. But he missed the old donkey's company and hoped to get back on a more comfortable footing by splurging on the big breakfast and doing a few other things that day that he hoped the Judge would appreciate.

When he heard the door from the hall creak behind him, he said as cheerfully as he could manage, "It's about time you got up. Listen, Judge, if you need a car today, take the Corvette. I'm gonna work on the truck; needs new sparkplugs, new filters. Okay?"

But when he turned, expecting to see Hardcastle only to find a strange and enormously attractive woman in Milt's bathrobe gazing at him, he was utterly at a loss. Scrambling for something to say, he looked around the kitchen in confusion and, attempting to be amusing but fearing he merely sounded inane, he asked, "Is this 101 Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu?"

"I think so," she replied, the beginnings of a smile edging the corners of her mouth.

"Milton C. Hardcastle's house?"

"Definitely," she replied, the grin widening.

Mark nodded judiciously, and then manfully trying to pretend she'd wandered in from the road instead of from the bedroom upstairs, while trying to belatedly assert his own right of domain, he asked, "Can I help you?"

Just then, Milt bustled in, whistling cheerfully. Breaking off when he found the two of them staring at each other, he asked with jovial heartiness, "You two introduce yourselves?"

"Not yet," Kay replied, laughter in her voice.

"Well, Kay, this is Mark McCormick. Mark, meet Kay Phillips."

Kay crossed the short space between them, lifting her hand to shake Mark's. "Nice to meet you, Mark," she said warmly. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Uh, hi," he replied weakly, wishing he could say the same as he shook her hand, and looked from her to Hardcase and back again.

Kay stepped back and went to the counter to pour two cups of coffee. Crossing to the stove, Milt eyed the eggs and bacon hungrily. Turning off the heat under the pan, he rubbed his hands together and asked her, "What can I get you? Bacon? Eggs? French toast?"

Handing one mug to Milt, she answered, "Just coffee, thanks," and took a sip.

Still feeling off-balance, Mark couldn't help but stare at the robe she was wearing, but he flushed when she caught his glance and lifted a hand to draw the collar tight. Looking down at herself, she said, "I guess I'd better get dressed." And then, hurriedly, as if to cover her own embarrassment, she added, "I don't want to be late for work."

"Kay works in a boutique in Santa Monica," Milt supplied for Mark. "You know, it's amazing how much she knows about women's clothing."

Finding the whole situation surreal, and boggled by the vision of Hardcase chatting about the intricacies of women's apparel, Mark could only echo, "Amazing."

"Actually, I've only had the job a couple months, and I'd hate to lose it," she explained.

"Don't worry, I'll get you there in plenty of time," Milt assured her.

"The Corvette, right?" Kay said to Mark with a hint of a teasing smile.

Puzzled by the nonsequiter, Milt looked at her in confusion.

"Yeah, I thought I'd do some work on the pickup today," Mark explained awkwardly.

"No problem," Milt agreed.

Kay glanced at the pan of fried eggs and greasy bacon, her expression a bit queasy. Turning away from it, she moved from the counter toward the door. "I'll just be a couple minutes. Nice meeting you, Mark."

"You, too," he replied solemnly, watching her leave and then going to the door to listen. When he was sure she was gone, or at least far enough away to not overhear them, he whirled back to Hardcastle and hissed, "Why didn't you tell me we were having company? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have a stranger walk into the kitchen in your _robe_?"

"Gee, I don't know," Hardcastle retorted sarcastically. "I only know what it's like to have Bambi parading around in your t-shirt," he went on, his tone rising in umbrage, "and that redhead from Santa Barbara shadow-boxing in the buff on the front lawn!"

"April happens to be very spiritual and into Eastern meditation philosophies," Mark replied defensively, and then argued, "Besides, that's different."

"Different how?"

"Y'know," Mark returned, but when Hardcase arched a brow and shook his head, he went on, "I'm thirty-two and you're …" He caught himself, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground and quickly substituted, "You're a Judge. You've got a position in the community."

"Listen, kiddo. Just 'cause I'm a coupl'a years older'n you, doesn't mean I gotta live like a monk!"

"Okay," Mark agreed lamely. "Just don't do it in front of the neighbors." _Especially the one living in the gatehouse_, he thought but didn't say, not sure why he was so uncomfortable with it all. He'd guessed Milt was seeing someone. Why did meeting the woman, albeit in the kitchen and in Milt's bathrobe, throw him so off-kilter? Was it that she was so _young_? Heck, she couldn't be more than a few years older than he was, and Hardcastle had more than thirty years on him.

"Y'know, a lot of women find mature men very attractive," Hardcastle said, as if reading his mind.

"I know. Bambi's crazy about George Burns," he taunted, and could have bit his tongue. There was absolutely no reason Milt shouldn't be seeing a younger woman. None at all. What the hell was the matter with him? Why couldn't he deal with this?

"And you want to know why women are attracted to mature men?" Hardcase pressed, his tone caught between defensiveness and rancor. "Because mature men never push. They let a relationship develop; take things slowly …."

"They have to," Mark muttered but at Milt's reaction, he hastily added, "No offense."

"This I can do without," Hardcastle growled, stalking across the kitchen to the door. "I'm gonna go see if Kay is ready."

Feeling bad, Mark implored, "Judge …?"

"What?" he demanded, turning back, his hands fisted and his stance dangerously ready for battle.

"Is it … is it serious between you two?"

Milt's posture relaxed, to Mark's profound relief. "Me and Kay? Nah," he replied, waving off the idea. "We've only known each other for six weeks. How serious could it be?" Not waiting for an answer, he pushed through the door and disappeared into the hall.

Sinking onto a chair, Mark murmured, "Serious enough to have her for a sleepover. Judge … you _never_ do that. Not once since I've met you. That feels pretty serious to me."

After dropping Kay off at the store, the more Milt thought about Mark's reaction on the drive back home, the more steamed he got. Who did McCormick think he was? Acting as scandalized as a prudish old maid with the vapors; hell, he'd upset Kay, staring at her and the robe like that. Telling him who he could or couldn't entertain at the house. Acting like he was too _old_ to have a lover. After all the bubble-headed bimbos McCormick had paraded around the place over the years, the kid had no moral high-ground, that was for damned sure. Getting all bent outta shape like that, just because a stranger had walked into the kitchen. Whose kitchen was it, anyway, huh?

Milt grumbled to himself all the way home and, by the time he peeled down the driveway, he was livid. Slamming the car door shut, he stomped into the house and back to the kitchen, expecting a mess, to give him something else to complain about. But the stove and counter were pristine. Scowling, he looked into the trash and saw the discarded eggs and bacon. "Waste of food," he muttered darkly, the hunger gnawing in his belly making him no happier.

Storming out the back door, he marched in high dungeon to the garage, where he found Mark puttering under the hood of the truck. "McCormick!" he shouted, all set to lay down the law. "You need a serious attitude adjustment!"

Mark straightened and, wiping his hands with a dirty rag, he came out from around the hood to stand beside the front fender. There was a dark smudge on his forehead and another smear along one cheek; the effect might have been clownish if his expression hadn't been so guarded. His jaw stiffened, and then he nodded tightly. "You're right," he agreed. "I was out of line. It's your life and your house, and you sure don't need my permission or anyone else's to bring company home."

Expecting – wanting – a fight, Milt was left off-balance by the reasonable response, but he was no less angry. "What the hell was wrong with you this morning?" he demanded hotly.

Spreading his hands, Mark shrugged and shook his head. "I told you; I was blind-sided, Judge. It was embarrassing and awkward to unexpectedly meet a strange woman in your bathrobe. She said she's heard all about me, but I didn't even know her name. Why is that, Hardcase? Huh? How come you never told me anything about her?"

"It's none of your business, that's why," he growled. "I don't have to account to you, ya know."

The guarded look flattened, and Mark just stared at him until the silence stretching between them was as taut as wire on the verge of snapping. "Fine," he finally spat out and turned back to the truck, as if dismissing both the conversation and Milt.

"Oh, no, you don't get off that easy," Milt grated, jabbing a finger at him. "You know what your problem is? You're jealous, that's what."

"Jealous?" Mark squeaked, looking dumbfounded. "Of what?"

"You think I'm too old for her; that she'd be better off with you. You wish you could have a woman like that – beautiful, intelligent and funny. But you know what? She's outta your league, kiddo. Kay has got _class_. Something you wouldn't understand."

"You're nuts," Mark retorted, throwing the rag to the ground, like a gauntlet. "Okay, sure, I'll admit an ex-con all-purpose yardman and dogs-body doesn't rank up there with a retired Superior Court Judge with an estate in Malibu. But that's not the point here, Hardcase."

"No? Then what's the point, Hotshot?"

"The point is, I thought we were supposed to be friends," Mark seethed, his voice thick. "Jealous? You are so far off-base, you're not even in the ballpark. My problem is that I don't know whether to be worried about her breaking your heart, or happy for you, to have met someone who seems pretty nice. But, hey, fine. You don't want to tell me what's going on? No skin off my nose." Giving Hardcastle a withering look, he chewed his inner lip as if debating saying more.

Startled, not having expected any of that, Milt gaped at him.

Breathing hard, Mark broke eye contact and gave a tight shake of his head. "Whatever," he muttered. With one smooth movement, he slammed the hood down. "I changed the oil, plugs and filters," he said without emotion, and then strode toward Hardcastle, who stiffened, still more than half ready for a fight, though Mark's evident fury and hurt had taken most of the wind out his sails.

Mark paused a moment a few feet away, still not making eye contact. "Is that what you told her about me, Judge?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "That I'm an ex-con living off your charity?" Without waiting for an answer, he started moving again, brushing past and walking briskly outside to hop into the Coyote and roar up the drive.

Staggered by the question, Milt felt sandbagged. The anger was gone, leaving him deflated. Heaving a sigh, he rubbed his mouth, wishing he could take back some of what he'd said but the niggling feeling of guilt made him defensive and uncomfortable. Sure, they were friends, but that didn't mean he had to tell McCormick every little thing. And the kid had been out of line that morning. Still … was that what Mark really thought? That he'd tell Kay he was nothing but a charity case, a ne'er-do-well ex-con?

Walking slowly back into the house, he had to grudgingly admit that maybe McCormick had a point. They _were_ friends – _best_ friends. So, maybe he should have said something about Kay before now. But, what was he supposed to say when he didn't fully understand his feelings himself? And he sure didn't have any idea of what he wanted, or where he hoped this relationship was going. Okay, so maybe he was, himself, deep down, worried about getting his heart bruised, if not broken; or worse, afraid of leading Kay on.

And what could he have told McCormick about her? That she had this nervous tic of looking behind her all the damned time, but had never said why? Or that she was vague about a whole lot of things, passing it off as a dislike of talking about herself? Or … or that she made him feel good? Happy? That he felt both excitement and comfort in her presence? He grimaced. Yeah, like he'd admit to sappy stuff like that.

In the den, he slumped into his chair, and drummed his fingertips on the desk. Looked like he had some fences to mend. Dejected, he gazed out the window at the empty drive, wondering where Mark had gone and when he'd be back. Damn, he hated eating crow.

Just went to prove that waking up feeling great didn't necessarily mean the rest of the day would be as wonderful. He sighed.

An hour later, he heard the low rumble of the Coyote coming slowly down the drive. He waited, thinking Mark might come into the house, but wasn't really surprised by the avoidance when he heard the raucous roar of the lawn mower. Scratching his cheek and deciding the crow he had to eat wouldn't taste any better by stewing over it, he pushed himself up and headed outside.

He supposed, when Mark studiously ignored him and mowed right around him, it was too much to hope that McCormick would meet him halfway, or make this any easier. Taking a breath, he trudged in Mark's wake down the long slope of lawn toward the cliff overlooking the ocean. And when the kid turned to head back up, he planted himself square in the way. When it looked like Mark was just going to mow around him again, he lifted his hands and shouted, "Would ya turn it off already!"

For a second, he thought McCormick might ignore him but, with a disgruntled look, Mark shut the machine down. "What?" he demanded, not giving an inch.

"We need to talk," he replied, going for a tone of conciliation. When Mark just quirked a brow and crossed his arms, he amended, "Okay, I need to talk and I need you to listen."

"So talk," Mark snapped.

Heaving a sigh, Milt walked past him to stand at the edge of the drop-off. Looking out over the sea, he was grateful when, after a beat, Mark moved to stand beside him. Milt gave him a quick glance, then resumed his study of the water. "I was out of line," he said, sounding gruffer than he'd intended. "I … I told her you're a law student. That you help me sort out old cases. And … and that you're my best friend."

"Oh," Mark exclaimed softly, sounding surprised. "Thanks." And then, "You didn't tell her I'm an ex-con?"

Shrugging, Milt said, "I told her you'd made some mistakes, and paid for them. I told her I was … well, that I'm proud of you."

Beside him, Mark's stiff posture eased. "What does she think about your Lone Ranger routine?" he asked then, his tone lighter, almost teasing.

"Uh, well," Milt hesitated, and scratched his nose. "I didn't exactly go into the details, y'know? I think she thinks you're helping me clean up old files, stuff like that."

Mark's snicker warmed him, and gave him the courage to continue. "I didn't tell you about her 'cause I'm not sure what to say. Where I come from, a gentleman doesn't talk about … well, you know. And I'm not all that sure where it's all going. At first," he shrugged, "I thought … friends. That's all. Now, I don't know."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mark turn to regard him thoughtfully. And then, laying a hand on his shoulder, Mark said, "Someone once told me that the value of maturity is knowing it's okay to take it slow."

Chuckling with relief, Milt nodded. "Yeah, well, that's true, you know."

Beside him, Mark studied him, and the grip on his shoulder tightened. "It's not a sin to care about someone again, Judge," he said gently. "You know that, right? That it's okay to love someone else?"

_Trust the kid to go straight to the heart of things_, Milt thought with a wry smile for the pun he hadn't intended. "I do know that," he agreed. "Up here," he went on, touching his temple. "But I'm just not sure what I want. Didn't want to talk about it until I am."

"I can understand that. Sorta figured as much."

"You did, huh?" Milt asked rhetorically. After a pause, he said, "She's a good person, Mark. Nice. Fun to be with."

"Yeah, I kinda got that impression," Mark drawled with a grin. "Looks good in your robe, too."

Milt snorted, and then grinned, some of the warm feeling of wonder and even pride he'd had when he'd awakened that morning returning. "You, uh, you think she's too young for me, though, don't you?" he probed, unable to stop himself, like picking at a scab.

Mark hesitated and then, though he continued to grip Milt's shoulder, he turned to look out over the ocean. "I just want to know that she's good enough for you, that's all, 'cause you deserve the best. It's not about age. It's about … well, it's about whether it works, and it's good. Not just for today. But, well, for all your tomorrows." His hand dropped away and he shrugged. "I don't want to be insulting or anything, or make you feel bad because you've got a lot going for you besides being stinking rich. But … well, you're a good catch," he went on, gesturing around the estate. "I don't know her, Judge. I don't know anything about her, or what she's looking for, what she wants out of this. Do you?"

"Oh, I don't think she's after my money, if that's what you're worried about," he demurred, refusing to take any offence. Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out, he went on, "An' like I said this morning, it's only been six weeks. It's not serious; not yet, anyway." But, deep down, he wondered about that. He hadn't needed six weeks to know Nancy was the one for him. Hell, he hadn't needed six _days_. Maybe it was different when you were younger.

Mark turned to gaze at him, but didn't say anything. Just looked … concerned. "Well, I'm hungry," Milt said, slapping his hands together and, having had enough baring of the soul to last a good long time, anxious to change the subject. "You eat this morning or just waste all that good food?"

"I could eat," Mark admitted almost reluctantly, evidently unwilling to implicate himself any further in the matter of wasting victuals.

Milt jerked his head back toward the house and, turning, they walked back up the lawn together, Mark's hand again coming to rest on his shoulder. Leaning closer, the kid offered impishly, "You know, if you ever need any pointers …."

Milt huffed a laugh. "Yeah, yeah," he drawled sarcastically, "like you're a shining example of effective and meaningful relationships."

"Oh, now, that's cold, Judge," Mark rebuked, and then blew his air of feigned umbrage by guffawing. "At least I've got some recent practice."

Remembering Kay in his robe, Milt gave him a sly, sideways look. "Oh, I think I'm doing just fine on my own. But thanks for the offer, Don Juan. If I run into trouble, I'll know just where not to turn for advice."

"Yeah, well, you and George Burns. You've got that cute age thing going for you," Mark jibed with a wide grin.

"I'm not old!" he shouted, giving the kid an elbow jab that had him dancing away in laughter. Grinning, Milt shook his head at McCormick's incorrigible antics, but he was very relieved to know they were back on an even keel.

Hardcastle was grateful when McCormick left him alone for the next few days. There was no teasing, no pointed looks, no difficult questions, just an apparently sincere wish to 'have a good time and say hello to Kay for me,' whenever he headed out for the evening.

And the kid didn't wait up for him anymore, either, lurking like a vengeful ghost on the dark stairs.

McCormick was giving him space and the time to take things at his own pace, and he deeply appreciated it. But, he still wasn't sure where he wanted to take things with Kay, or whether he just rather hoped things would remain pretty much as they were – fun, satisfyingly intimate, but no commitments. Only, that left a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn't a man to dither, or to take advantage of a woman for his own purposes. He figured that, pretty soon, he was going to have to either fish or cut bait.

It didn't help that Kay didn't seem to want anything more than what they already had, either. Not only didn't she talk about her past, she didn't talk about the future. Taking each day as it came was okay so far as it went, but something about it all felt hollow to him, and more than a little surreal, like walking and walking but never getting anywhere. Like being in a dream. A great dream, sure … but dreams weren't real.

Milt wondered if maybe he needed to do something to push things along, so he'd know where they were going, one way or another. With that thought in mind, the next time he and McCormick were running around in the over-sized tinker toy, he directed the kid to drive into Beverly Hills, to Rodeo Drive. There was a jewelry store there that Nancy had liked. The thought of his wife made him cringe a little, but then he told himself he was being dumb. Nancy hadn't wanted him to spend the rest of his life alone. She'd approve of what he was doing. He kinda hoped she'd approve of Kay.

"There, that's the place," he said, pointing it out, just down the block. "Le Monti's, yeah. Just pull up and I'll jump out. Won't be more'n a few minutes. You can wait for me."

"A jewelry store?" Mark echoed and gave him a quick, searching look, but didn't say anything else. Just pulled up and stopped in the 'no parking' slot right in front of the store. "You sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

"Nah," Milt waved him off and climbed out of the Coyote. "The valet parking here costs a king's ransom. Like I said, this won't take long." Ignoring Mark's uncertain, slightly concerned expression because he couldn't figure out why the kid would be worried, he turned away and strode across the pavement to enter the shop.

Inside, the ambiance was both hushed and expectant, as if the glittering gems, exquisite crystal, and strands of gold, silver, platinum and pearls demanded both homage and acquisition. A young fellow offered flutes of champagne to the shoppers and, shaking his head at the proffered glass, Milt hid a smile. It was one way to loosen inhibitions and get folks to spend more than might be good for them.

Obsequious clerks hovered behind the pristine glass counters, welcoming smiles on their faces as if they lived to serve. Milt unconsciously patted his pocket, ensuring his wallet was present and accounted for, as he ambled further into the realm of wealth and privilege. His gaze skated over the display cases as he considered what, exactly, it was that he wanted to buy for Kay. Something personal but not _too_ personal. Something that would reflect the esteem in which he held her and her friendship, but not something that would promise too much. For a moment, he hovered over the bank of exquisite engagement rings and pursed his lips, trying to imagine himself picking out one of those babies, but he just couldn't do it. Couldn't see that happening. At least … not yet.

One of the servers moved closer to hover within whisper distance, and Milt gave him a glance and a nod of acknowledgement as he moved on, looking at necklaces and earrings, and bracelets. But none of them seemed right, somehow. Too much frippery about them. They'd be fine as an anniversary gift, maybe, but not as a first token of valued friendship. Chewing on his inner lip, he began to think maybe this would take a bit longer than he'd figured. He looked at the crystal vases and doodads, but they made him think of the aunts, so his gaze didn't linger long.

And then he came to the cases of watches – hundreds of watches, and he felt the rightness inside. When he paused, the clerk murmured encouragingly.

Now all he had to do was just choose one from amongst the multitude. There were leather bands in various colors, watch faces in pink, blue, sapphire, gold, emerald and silver. Metal bands, some wide and heavy looking, that made him frown when he thought of Kay's delicate wrists; others were little more thin woven wires of gold or silver … and seemed too flimsy. Some had gems encrusted around the faces like flower petals of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He thought they looked ostentatious and ridiculous, garish rather than glamorous.

Finally, one particular watch caught his eye and didn't let go. The band was of finely-crafted, delicate but sturdy-looking square links of gold. The face was an equally delicate rectangle that was slightly concave on the long sides – a design that was stylish, but not contrived – and edged with tiny diamonds that were discreet and enhanced the watch-face, but didn't overwhelm it. Useful as well as decorative, finely-crafted as only Swiss watches could be, it was a timepiece that a woman could wear proudly in a variety of situations, from her work in an upscale women's boutique to the opera. Altogether, as he studied it, the watch gave Milt the impression of both delicacy and strength, and of understated elegance that bespoke authentic 'class' – a description that, for him, epitomized Kay.

It was, in every respect, perfect.

Looking up at the man who had trailed patiently along on the other side of the counter, he grinned and pointed at his selection.

As the clerk drew it out for his closer examination, he reached for his wallet and pulled out his credit card. "An excellent choice, Mr. … Hardcastle," the clerk approved with a glance at his credit card. "A gift that will last forever."

When the slip came back for his signature, he manfully resisted the urge to wince at the amount. Instead, he smiled cheerfully and leaning forward a bit, said in a confidential tone, "I want it wrapped up real special."

"I'll see to it, sir," the clerk approved with warm, plummy tones that made him want to cringe, but he just nodded and kept smiling. "I'll just be a minute," the man went on, reaching for a jewelry box on the shelf behind him, a box that would do as well for a large engagement ring, as it would for the watch.

"Thanks," Milt replied, and puckering his lips in a silent whistle he turned to look outside – and saw McCormick pressing his face up against the glass, looking for all the world like Tiny Tim gazing at entrancing toys on Christmas Eve. As soon as he was spotted, Mark backpedaled and did his best to look nonchalant as he ambled past the parking attendant to the Coyote. Milt covered his mouth, his laugh morphing into a discreet cough as he rolled his eyes and turned back to take the small box gift-wrapped in crimson velvet-plush paper with a tiny satin bow from the clerk. With a casual salute, he ambled back out to the street.

"I've been standing here for an hour!" Mark hissed and jerked his chin toward the parking attendant. "That guy thinks I'm too cheap to park the car." Glancing at the box in Milt's hand, he headed around the hood. "How come you wouldn't let me go in with you?" he asked, as he slid into his seat.

"There're some things a man has to do alone, McCormick," Milt replied complacently, as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Well … going off to war comes to mind," Mark retorted, "not shopping in the most exclusive jewelry story in Beverly Hills!"

"You really think this is the best store in town?" Milt asked, preening a little at the confirmation of his good taste.

"Judge, if this place was any more exclusive, you'd need a blood test to get inside," Mark drawled sarcastically as he cranked the engine.

Sensing that there was a criticism in there somewhere, Milt growled, "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Don't get so defensive," Mark assured him with a small grin that faded almost immediately as he asked with studied insouciance, as if the answer was of no concern, "So what did you buy?"

"Just a little something for Kay," he replied as he gazed out at the passing throng and glitz of the most expensive shopping zone in the world.

"A little something for her neck?" Mark probed but, with a glance at the box, he shook his head. "No, the box is too small. Her wrist?" When Milt ignored him, his casualness dissipated, and his voice lowered anxiously, "Not her finger … Judge …?"

"I'm not gonna tell ya, McCormick, so you might as well stop this little guessing game ya got goin'," he replied with clear, if good-humored finality. Hiding a smile, he thought that there were times when he could swear the kid was little more than twelve years old, and not a grown man in law school.

"Don't you think you're moving a little too fast?" Mark challenged, sounding more worried than critical. "I mean, you hardly know Kay. What happened to the mature approach? Taking things slow? George Burns would let a relationship like this develop."

"I'm just helping things along," Milt returned and his tone sharpened, to signal that he'd had enough of the third degree. "Now would you just shut up and drive? I've got a date tonight, an' I don't want to be late."

"Have you met her parents yet, Judge?" Mark prodded, pushing just a little too hard.

_As usual_, Milt thought with a sigh, and his mouth tightened at how little he really did know about Kay, her family … her past. "Just drive, McCormick."

Mark's lips thinned and his jaw clenched, as if he was biting back words. Settling into his seat, disapproval and anxiety radiating from him in waves, he tucked his chin in and drove. Milt sniffed and scrubbed at his nose. Really, the kid needed to relax. There was absolutely nothing for him to be worried about.

Classical music wafted in refined strains across the lawns and gardens, and through the wrought-iron gates, from the largest, most expensive mansion at the top of Nob Hill in San Francisco – only to end with a sickening screech of a needle being ruthlessly drawn across the record to silence the orchestra.

Inside the luxuriously appointed drawing room boasting a marble fireplace, walls covered in silk, Persian carpets and elegant if somewhat uncomfortable furniture, David Vincent, the mansion's owner and Chairman of the Board of Vincent Shipping Lines, turned from the stereo cabinet. Swarthy and yet compellingly handsome, middle-aged and garbed in clothing that bespoke of wealth, a good education and power, he looked furious as he snarled, "I'm paying you for results, Wylie, and all I'm getting is jerked around! The woman didn't vanish off the face of the earth!"

Wylie Crowder, a burly man with the look of an ex-prize fighter who'd taken too many hits, laconically stuffed a fresh stick of chewing gum into his mouth before answering. "Look, Mr. Vincent," he replied, spreading his hands wide, "I've already double-checked all the airlines, trains, buses, and rental car agencies. No Blair McKenzie checked out of San Francisco in the last two months."

"You moron," Vincent sneered. "She's a very smart lady. Too smart to use her own name."

"I know that," Crowder whined defensively. "And I'm checkin' aliases … showing her picture around. But that takes time."

"Time, Wylie?" Vincent echoed with a menacing growl. "I don't have time! I've got the FBI, the DEA, not to mention the police department, breathing down my neck. And if they connect me to Carlyle's murder, I've bought myself a one-way ticket to San Quentin."

"How're they gonna connect you to the murder without the McKenzie dame's testimony?" Crowder objected, trying to sound reasonable.

"They can't – which means they must be looking for her, too."

"We'll find her," Crowder assured him with a shrug. "Sooner or later, she'll slip up."

"Slip up or no slip up, the important thing is to find her first," Vincent grated, his posture tense. "Did you check with the Medical Association?"

"Yeah, sure. Their records still show she left San Francisco General eight weeks ago … and she's no longer in active practice."

Frowning, Vincent rubbed his mouth. "She must be running scared to give up her practice." He shook his head, and his voice held his honest admiration for her as he continued, "You know, she worked her way through college and then med school. She was five years into her surgical practice before she paid off the last of her student loans."

His voice dropping off, he moved across the room with unconscious grace, to the elegant antique desk in the corner. He stood very still for a moment before picking up a photograph in a gilt-edged frame, and he felt a tearing inside as he regarded her beloved visage. "She's one helluva a doctor. One beautiful lady," he murmured with heavy sorrow. Staring at her image, he cleared his throat, and his voice was stronger, more determined, as he went on, "Look, she's gotta be somewhere. She has to have a life, a job … friends." Turning to Crowder, he squared his shoulders, and faced what had to be done head on. "Now, I want you to find her … and then …." The hateful words caught and nearly choked him, but he forced them out with a harsh rasp, "I want you to kill her."

Crowder nodded and turned away. Vincent looked down at the vibrant, smiling portrait of Kay Phillips – known to him as the beautiful and brilliant Dr. Blair McKenzie – and felt the burn of tears in his eyes.

Nattily dressed in a western shirt, checked sport coat, tan pants, cowboy boots and suede Stetson, Milt looked every inch a cattle baron reminiscent of John Wayne, as he held the boutique door open for Kay. His broad smile of affection and no little pride to be her escort stiffened, though, when he caught her reflexive glance at the sidewalk behind her when she stepped outside. Gaze narrowing, and one corner of his mouth turning down, he reflected that giving her time and space to learn to trust him was one thing – but if they were going to be more than affectionate friends and sometime lovers, she needed to share more about herself, and her obviously watchful, if not exactly overtly frightened, demeanor. Thinking about the little box in his pocket, he decided that it was time to move their relationship forward in more ways than one.

Joining her on the sidewalk, and angling his arm to invite her to tuck her arm in his, he observed mildly, "You know, I noticed you're always doing that."

When she lifted her face toward him, perplexity in her eyes, she asked, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said you're always doing that – looking over your shoulder." Forcing a jovial tone that belied the depth of his concern, he asked, "Who're you afraid you're gonna see? An ex-boyfriend? Ex-husband?" When she glanced away and didn't answer, he pushed a little harder. "Maybe a not-so-ex-husband?"

"Don't be silly, Milt," she chided, once again looking up to meet his eyes, a reassuring smile on her lips. Patting his arm, she assured him blithely, "You're the only man in my life." When he quirked a brow, not really buying the casual reassurance, she looked ahead as they matched their steps. "I guess it's a bad habit I developed, being on my own for so many years. I even check the closets and under the bed before I go to sleep."

Not wanting to call her a liar, but disquieted, Milt covered her hand with his own and murmured tellingly, "I hadn't noticed."

But she resisted the invitation to confide and simply smiled at him impishly. "Ah, but when I'm with you, I'm not afraid of anything."

And that he believed _was_ the truth, and was warmed by her confidence in him. So he let it go, for the moment.

They walked in companionable silence for another block, and then he steered her into a dignified restaurant that mimicked the paneled elegance of an English drawing room. The ambiance was congenial, intimate without being suggestive, and he knew the food was good. While they ate, Kay entertained him with witty and amusing anecdotes from her day at the boutique. He was struck again by her mixture of intelligence, good humor and compassion for, though the stories were funny and about the foibles of the city's wealthy matrons, they were never catty or hurtful.

As they finished their desserts – Spotted Dick – he reflected that he enjoyed being with a woman who had a healthy appetite and appreciated good food, without any coy references to diets and all that crap. They were lingering over their cups of coffee when the waiter asked, "Can I get you folks anything else?"

"A check'll be fine," Milt told him.

With a nod, the waiter placed the tab on the table. "Whenever you're ready, I'll take the money up," the young fellow assured them and moved off.

Milt looked at Kay, at her glowing complexion and glossy, wild curls, and smiled with open admiration. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the box and placed it on the table in front of her. "This is for you," he said simply, his easy tone covering his nervous hope that she'd like his gift.

Startled, Kay's eyes widened. "But, it's not my birthday or anything," she protested softly, hesitating as she reached for it.

"I know that," he grinned. "But it's a lot more fun buying presents when they're unexpected … and it's no big deal. Go on, open it."

"All right – and thank you," she murmured. Her tone was grateful, even moved, but her smile was tentative, uncertain. And he could see the slight tremble in her hands as she picked it up, and she swallowed nervously as she undid the rich wrapping.

"You're not supposed to thank me until after you open it," he teased, wanting to reassure her. "Who knows? Maybe you won't like it. Y'know, I don't have a lot of experience with presents. Criminals, maybe. But not presents."

As if unsure what to say to that, she just kept smiling, but it was tremulous and revealed anxiety underlying the fact that she was also, evidently, deeply touched. Watching her, Milt was pretty sure she was afraid it was an engagement ring, and he was very glad that he was, indeed, taking this slow. As much as he didn't know where they were going, he did know that he didn't want to scare her off.

She gasped as she opened the box, delight and admiration written in her much more confident smile and in her eyes when she glanced from the watch to him. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "I … I don't know what to say."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to say anything," Milt assured her with gruff affection, feeling the flush of pleasure at her reaction heat his face; pleasure and an odd shyness. "You could try it on, though," he encouraged diffidently, hopefully.

"Okay," she agreed, but the tremor in her hands had increased and she was all thumbs as she tried to fix the chain to her wrist.

Gently, he reached over to take the watch from her. "Here, let me help you with that," he offered, and then carefully affixed it to her arm. It was slightly too loose for her, and he sighed in regret, wishing it could have fit as if made for her. But that could be easily remedied. "Looks pretty good … doesn't it?" he observed, hoping she agreed.

She nodded jerkily – and started to cry.

Appalled, certain she must hate the watch, he stammered, "Ah, hey, Kay, don't cry. If you don't like it, we can take it back. Get you something you would like."

Sniffing, she quavered, "Like it? Oh, Milt, I _love_ it!"

_Then why's she crying?_ he wondered in helpless bafflement. "Maybe it's a little too personal, huh? Maybe a bowling ball or toaster oven would've been better."

"No, no. It's perfect, really," she insisted, as she swiped tears from her face with her fingertips. "I don't know why I can't stop crying."

With a quizzical but tender expression, he pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. "Well, you'd better stop it," he admonished without heat, and grinned fondly as he looked at the crowded tables around them. "What're people gonna think?"

"Right," she agreed with a wet chuckle, and wiped her tears away with his linen.

When she looked up into his eyes, he could see something shift in their depths, as if she'd come to a decision, and he thought with relief, _Ah, at last. She finally trusts me._

She hesitated a moment more, and then revealed, "Milt, there's something I need to tell you."

"As long as you stop crying, I'll listen to anything," he offered to persuade her to continue.

With utter sincerity, tears glimmering in her eyes, she said, "I want you to know that I won't blame you if – after you've heard what I have to say – you get up and walk out. Take the watch back … not buy me a bowling ball."

Taking her hand, Milt solemnly assured her, "Kay, listen. Havin' been a cop, a lawyer … a judge – I've heard everything there is to hear, and more'n once. So I'm not gonna take the watch back, or get up and leave you, 'cause I don't shock that easy. So, what is it you want to tell me?"

She sniffed and took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and swallowed hard. "Milt … I'm pregnant."

He blinked, and wondered if he'd heard right. His expression didn't change only because he was schooled in keeping thoughts to himself, but she'd done what he hadn't expected. She'd shocked him into speechlessness.

"I'm going to have a baby," she clarified, as if to fill the silence between them.

"Ah …" he fumbled, willing his brain into gear. "Are you …" he stammered, but of course she'd be sure. "A baby," he echoed. "Hell." And then, to lighten the strain he could feel growing between them, he teased with a gentle smile, "Are you sure it's yours?"

"Yes, I am," she replied with devastating simplicity.

Suddenly needing to move, feeling an irrational but urgent need to bolt for the hills, he abruptly came to his feet – and then froze. Very well aware of how long they'd been doing the horizontal mambo, feeling a rush of responsibility but almost dizzy with the unexpectedness of it, he gripped the edge of the table and breathed, "Oh, my God."

"I don't expect you to take responsibility for it," she insisted in a rush, sounding both sure and somehow afraid.

Dazed, unable to think, he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and blindly drew out a number of bills. "Here," he rasped, laying the money on the table, "why don't you pay the bill?" Then, evading her searching gaze and hating himself for his weakness, but unable to breathe and badly needing air, he turned and hurried past the waiter and on out of the restaurant.

When he hit the sidewalk, he drew in great, gulping gasps of air and fought back the nausea that burned the back of his throat. _Dear God,_ he thought, but couldn't seem to get any further. Couldn't make any sense of it.

When she came out a moment later, he mutely took her arm and escorted her to the Corvette. In silence, they drove to her apartment, where he pulled up in front of the door. He couldn't look at her, didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to reassure her, tell her it would be all right – but his gut rebelled. He wasn't ready for this. Didn't know, in all conscience, if he … he hadn't planned on this. Hadn't imagined anything like this. "I'm sorry," he finally said with a heartfelt sigh. "I need to think about this."

"I know," she allowed, and his heart clenched at how sad and brave she sounded.

Instinctively, he reached out to touch her arm as she shifted to get out of the car. "I'm not walking out on you, here," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I just … I just need to think before we talk some more."

She nodded. And then she was out of the car and walking with a dignified, measured pace – her back straight and her head high – through the archway and out of his sight. He wondered, with no little admiration, what such courage cost her.

Forcing every thought away but the need to focus on the heavy traffic that characterized the city every hour of the day and night, he drew away from the curb and headed home. But he could not so easily quell the riot of emotions that cramped in his gut and crowded the air from his chest. By the time he pulled up in front of the house, he felt shaky and was glad McCormick wasn't yet back from his night class. Milt wasn't ready to talk about it, but he also knew he could not have hidden his badly unsettled emotions from his friend.

He slowly made his way upstairs, each step an effort. Wiping a trembling hand over his face, he thought he'd never before felt so _old_. He undressed with mechanical precision, familiar habits the only sense of stability or structure he could cling to, and crawled into the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he intended to do some hard thinking to sort out not only his emotions but his next steps. But his thoughts, finally let loose, ricocheted in his mind, splintered fragments of conflicting perspectives mingling with rioting emotions that encompassed a sense of entrapment and despair, anger at his indecisiveness, and frustration at having to make such hard and unlooked for choices. _Too damned old for this. Stupid, so stupid. Unconscionably careless. Responsible. Do the right thing. An innocent child._

But underneath it all, there was a wild elation and pride, a feeling of potency and vigor that was almost feral, at the knowledge he'd conceived another child. And, he thought, with the disgust of maturity that understood the complexities of bringing life into the world, that that irrational lunacy was the most frightening and sickening reaction of all. Yet … another part of him believed profoundly in the sanctity and miracle of life, and in his responsibility to protect and nurture it, for itself and for what that life might mean to the future of his world.

Too over-wrought to think clearly, he finally gave up and rolled onto his side. Closing his eyes, he fervently hoped sleep would overtake him and give him respite, allowing him to gather strength to face it all in the morning.

**ACT TWO**

When the enticing scent of fresh-perked coffee wafted up from the kitchen, Milt awoke feeling far less fragile and much more himself.

But he still didn't have the courage to face McCormick. He had to decide what he was going to do, first. This was something that Mark could not help him with. Sure, in some ways, the kid would understand. Any responsible man who had an iota of integrity and who had gotten the news he had received the evening before would be grappling with many of the same emotions and concerns. In fact, he was pretty sure that faced with a similar situation, McCormick would be on his way to get the blood tests and marriage license.

Nor was he afraid that Mark would give him a hard time, whether for having gotten into this situation in the first place, or through good-humored teasing. No, McCormick would see he was upset and would do everything in his power to support him. The kid had his back. It was the one sure thing that Milt counted on without question.

But McCormick was young. He couldn't have the perspective, the understanding, of what it was like to contemplate parenthood at Milt's age. It wasn't just the physical issues of keeping up with a tyke that would run a young adult ragged. The hell of it was knowing that he might well die before the youngster had grown up, and wondering if that would be fair to the kid.

Nor had he been willfully stupid or careless. Frowning, he stared out the window up at the clear sky and remembered that he'd suggested precautions only to have Kay assure him that there were no risks to fear. Heaving a breath, he grimaced. Sometimes, the pill didn't work. It happened.

Chewing on his lip, Milt reflected that marriage wasn't the only, or even the best, option in every case. There were other alternatives.

When he heard the Coyote rumble up the drive, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. Half an hour later, having no appetite and feeling the need for air and space, he tugged a ball cap onto his head and headed out to his truck. For the next hour, he drove aimlessly, while he bounced ideas and options around in his head, but found himself no closer to any answers.

Finally, he parked near a school and listened to shrill, excited voices laughing and shouting as he watched the children vent their energy during their short recess from the confines of the classroom. When the bell rang and they trooped back indoors, he drove on, to a nearby park, and watched young mothers with their toddlers and preschoolers. He couldn't resist a smile at the exuberance of the children, and before long he found himself reminiscing about times past. He'd had a great son and, truthfully, didn't really want another one. Deep inside, he couldn't bear the idea of somehow 'replacing' Tommy. That could never be possible because Tommy was, well, irreplaceable, pure and simple. When Mark's face flashed into his mind's eye, he frowned, wondering where that had come from. Oh, sure, he cared about the kid, loved him even, but McCormick wasn't his son. He didn't want or need another son.

But … a little girl, maybe? Pretty and sweet, like her mother, Kay? Gazing from the kids to their mothers, he thought about Kay, about how hard it would be for her to raise a child – his child – on her own. Why was he so reluctant to contemplate marriage? They enjoyed one another's company, had a good time together. She was a thoroughly lovely, decent, kind person. Hell, he was damned lucky she'd even given him a second look. Could they could make it work, be happy in a life together? Sure they could.

Sighing, he started the engine and did some more aimless driving, thinking about Tommy when he passed the toy store where he and Nancy had bought most of their son's toys. Those had been good years; in many ways, the best years of his life. But he'd been a young man, strong and vigorous, certain of his ability to be there for his family. Now, he was … well, not _old_, exactly, but no spring chicken, either. What if …?

Grimacing, he heaved a breath. If worst came to worst, he knew darned well he could count on McCormick to look after his family. Mark would do all in his power to see that they were okay, and not just for money. McCormick understood that there were more important things in life than cold, hard cash.

Ultimately, whichever way he looked at it, it came down to doing the right thing.

Finally, he turned toward Kay's neighborhood, and parked at the curb outside her apartment building. Passing through the archway, he followed the stone path to the inner courtyard and the pool, and then to her ground floor apartment. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, stepped forward and rang the doorbell.

"Milt!" Kay exclaimed when she opened the door, as if he was the last person on the face of the earth who she expected to see standing there.

Taken aback by her astonishment, Milt could feel himself flush with embarrassment over how badly he'd handled the news the evening before. Giving her a smile that he hoped didn't convey any of his trepidation, he explained, "I've been thinking things over… and I think it's great about the baby… just great."

A little frown bunched her brows as she studied him. Then, stepping back, she opened the door wider and said, "I think we need to talk."

His smile broadening hopefully, Milt nodded and, tugging off his ball cap, he walked in, sliding past her to lead the way to the living room. She closed the door and followed him, choosing a seat on the sofa. Though she waved him to a chair, he took a breath and sat down beside her. When the words caught in his throat, and his gaze danced around the room as if seeking escape, he realized this was going to be harder than he'd expected. But it was the right thing and he really thought it would work out okay.

Taking her hand in his, he forced himself to gaze into her eyes. "Kay, like I said, I've thought about it, and I want us to get married."

"What?" she gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief.

Unable to sit still, he jumped up and began to pace nervously back and forth across the carpet in front of her. "We get along great," he said in a rush. "An' the child needs to have _two_ parents. I know what I'm doing, here, and … and I care about you." _Damn,_ he thought, rubbing his mouth, _I should have said 'love'. But I … I care. I do care._

"I can't marry you," she replied, her voice tight, her throat clogged by tears.

Turning to face her, he insisted, "I want to do the right thing here… I want to take care of you and the baby." When she didn't look convinced, he spread his hands and cajoled, "Now I know I may not be the handsomest guy around."

"You're very attractive," she argued, but she sounded distracted, and her eyes were avoiding his.

"… and I can be a little gruff at times…" Milt continued, talking over and through her objections.

"The baby isn't your responsibility," she insisted, her gaze darting around as if it was she who now felt cornered.

"… and I like to have things my own way…" he continued, determined to hold her attention and win her agreement, but equally determined to be honest and fair about what she'd be letting herself in for.

"This is crazy!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands as she looked up at him, searching his eyes.

"…but we get along pretty well…" he went on, again sitting down beside her to capture her hands in a gentle but firm grip. "I had a great time at the basketball game the other night, even though the Lakers lost… and that new wave adaptation of the Trojan Women play you took me to…" He gave her a winning smile and shrugged as he teased, "I didn't fall asleep until the second act."

"It won't work," she replied, but sorrowfully, as if she wished with all her heart that it could.

"Sure it will," he insisted. And it _could_ work, if they both gave it a chance and did their best. Hell, people made arranged marriages work. At least they _liked _each other and knew they got along.

Pulling her hands free, she crossed her arms and bowed her head. "You don't know anything about me," she murmured sadly.

Milt snorted. "You're a Golden State Warriors fan. You love hamburgers, an' hate hot dogs. Your favorite movie is "The Turning Point". As a kid you never made your bed –"

"Milt," she cut in, her gaze earnest as she laid a light hand on his arm. "I've done some things I'm not proud of."

"So you married a sailor once," he said dismissively with a shrug, and covered her hand with his own. Leaning forward, he went on with confidential embarrassment, "I'll tell you… one time, in France… I met this woman… I still get embarrassed when I think about it."

Giving him a look of fond exasperation, she again interrupted, "It'd be a mistake to rush into anything."

Encouraged by the fact that she was no longer saying, 'no', Milt grinned at her. "I don't think the baby's going to wait for a long courtship… the best bet is a long marriage."

Once again, she studied his face, his eyes. Shaking her head, looking away, she demurred, "I don't think I can marry you."

Certain that he was right, and that she'd change her mind, Milt patted her hand affectionately. "You'll change your mind," he assured her.

Kay gave him a look of frustration, but seemed at a loss for words.

"I'd be honored to have you as my wife," he told her with as much conviction and honesty as he could muster. "We could have a good life together, and you know we'd both do our best for our child." She bit her lip and looked as if she might burst into tears. "Look, we don't have to decide today," he went on soothingly. "You need time to wrap your head around being married to an old codger like me." When she looked as if she might give another proforma protest, he touched a finger to her lips. "All I ask is that you give me a chance, here. Think about it. I'm sure you'll agree that this is the best, the _right_, thing to do. Okay?"

She nodded, albeit reluctantly. "I'll think about it," she allowed.

Slapping his hands together, he stood. "Good! Wonderful! I'll let you do that." Looking around, he couldn't think of anything else to say – and once again, he felt an irrational need to escape, to get outside and breathe fresh air. Heading for the door, he called over his shoulder, "I've got some errands to run. We'll talk again later."

Milt found Mark in the garage conducting his quarterly cleanup, whether the place needed it or not. He'd long ago decided that puttering around like this was McCormick's way of working off nervous energy, as well as a way of thinking things through while doing mindless stuff with his hands. The kid was probably pondering some thorny legal problem that he had to work out for one of his classes. Quietly, he stepped out of the bright sunlight into the cool interior and stood for a moment, his hands in his pockets, simply enjoying the surge of pride that had grown familiar but was no less gratifying over the three months since Mark had confessed that he was attending law school.

For a moment as he contemplated his protégé, Milt allowed his thoughts to drift back to the brash, cocky young man he'd brought to Gulls' Way that first night. No doubt about it, McCormick had been a long shot – but one that had paid off better than any daily double and in ways Milt could never have imagined. The kid had changed some over the years, sure, but in good ways and not in anything that mattered. The brashness was muted, the cockiness less pronounced, and no longer a nervous twitch to hide behind. No, now it was grounded in the sure confidence of man who knew who he was, what he stood for, and where he was going. The rough edges had been rubbed away by adversity and adventure … and the healing touch of time.

But the core of the man hadn't changed all that much. Mark might be a lot less naïve than he'd been, less needful of approval, but the rock-solid compassion and kindness were still there, as Milt has seen in the way Mark had treated Mimi. Heck, after three months, the kid was still visiting her every week, carrying a rose or some chocolate, like a knight of old bearing a token of tribute to a much-loved queen. And as for courage? Well, the kid hadn't ever been a coward, that was for damned sure. Mark was solid, dependable … and, as unlikely as it might have once seemed, the best friend he'd ever have. And, for that, Milt knew he'd never cease to be grateful.

"Hey, McCormick, ya got a minute?" he called, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembered why he was there and what it was he'd come to say. "There's something I want to tell you."

Glancing over his shoulder, Mark nodded absently as he turned, a box of motor oil in his hands. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, looking around for a place to put the box.

"Well," he hesitated, rubbing his nose, and then squaring his shoulders. Pasting a determined smile on his face, he said, "Ya see, Kay's expecting … an' I wanted you to be the first to know that –"

"Expecting? Expecting what?" Mark interrupted as he set the box down on the floor.

"_Expecting_," he repeated, but when Mark just cocked his head, evidently not getting it, Milt sighed. "A baby, McCormick. Kay's pregnant. An' I've decided to –"

"Kay's gonna have a baby?!" Mark squeaked, gaping at him in shock. "You're … you're kidding, right? But how? When?"

"No, McCormick, I'm not kidding. An' if you don't know how, then you're way overdue for a talk about the birds and the bees," he replied in exasperation. This was hard enough to say without being interrupted every few seconds.

"Oh, come on," Mark objected. "You know what I mean. If I came home with a story like that, you'd tear a strip off me for being so careless."

"Yeah, yeah, well, sometimes these things just happen, ya know?" Milt sighed. "An' ya got to deal with it." Taking a breath, he doggedly continued with feigned enthusiasm, "An' if you'd just let me finish, here, I want you to be the first to know that we're gonna get married!" And he forced a smile to show how happy he was about sharing the news.

"Married?" Mark echoed hollowly. He blinked and then closed his mouth, his mouth tightening into a hard line.

Milt's smile wavered at the distinct impression that McCormick was struggling to bite back words that would underscore the stunned disapproval written all over his face. "I thought you'd be happy for me and Kay," he pressed with an uncertain growl, needing reassurance. Badly needing Mark to be happy for him.

"I am… I just don't know what to say," Mark offered, taking a step toward him. Gesturing at the air around them, he went on lamely, "It's all so sudden."

Sniffing, disgruntled with the half-hearted response, Milt challenged, "You could say you'll be the baby's godfather." Because he was counting on that; counting on Mark to back him up in this as in all things. He needed to know the kid wouldn't let him down; would be there if he was ever needed.

Mark blinked again, as if disconcerted by the suggestion, and his expression softened. "I'm touched, Judge… _really_," he insisted, taking another step closer. A bemused, vulnerable smile played around his lips. "I've never been a godfather before…"

"Then you'll do it?" Milt clarified, watching him closely, weighing Mark's expression, stance and tone.

"Sure," Mark assured him, and there was no doubting the depth of his sincerity. "It'd be an honor."

Relieved, Milt smiled, a full, honest, bright smile and felt something tight inside ease. It would be all right. Whatever the future held, everything would be all right.

But Mark's smile faltered as concern suffused his face, and Milt felt a chill of foreboding. "Look, I don't know how to say this exactly… I don't want you to think I'm not happy for you," he began awkwardly, choosing his words with care, "but … but just a few days ago you told me it wasn't serious between you and Kay."

Shrugging, he admitted, "A few days ago I didn't know I was going to be a father."

"Y'know," Mark offered, his tone dropping into hesitant caution, "you've got nine months. Maybe you shouldn't rush into anything…" He hesitated and then forged on, "You and Kay haven't known each other that long."

"Long enough," Hardcastle assured him without heat, understanding Mark's misgivings. Hell, not so many hours ago, he would have shared them. But he was sure now, very sure he was doing the right thing. Giving Mark a reassuring grin, wanting the kid to be happy for him, he added enthusiastically, "And Kay's a lot of fun. I like her."

"Yeah," Mark murmured, his tone soft and rich with understanding, as he studied Milt with a small frown. "But do you _love_ her?"

Milt's gaze jerked away and his mouth tightened. He didn't want to lie, but the question bothered him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Pushing it away along with all his own residual uncertainties about the path he'd chosen, he drew deep for every vestige of enthusiasm he could muster. "She's gonna have a baby and we're gonna get married … and that's that." Needing to get away before the conversation got completely out of hand, he gestured vaguely around the garage. "So why don't you go back to doin' whatever it was you were doin', 'cause I got a lot of things to do… startin' with plannin' an engagement party!"

He wheeled away and hurried off before Mark could say anything more. He didn't need these doubts. Didn't need McCormick second-guessing him. Didn't want to hear any reasons about why he shouldn't be moving so fast. Hell, if he didn't move fast, he might … no, he wasn't going to change his mind about this. He was going to do the right thing.

Behind him, Mark picked up a box, held it as if unsure what to do with it, and then set it down again. Sinking down upon it, very obviously deeply worried, he stared at the empty place where Milt had been.

Jets roared as they sped down the runway of San Francisco's International Airport, while others dropped down through the airspace to land. Inside, the departure terminal was crowded with travelers, some harried, others excited, many seemingly simply resigned to the long lines in front of the check-in counters. Noise reverberated in the massive hall, making the metallic announcements over the speakers nearly incomprehensible.

At a kiosk sporting public telephones, Crowder chewed gum and studied the photo he held in one hand while he talked with Vincent, who was at home in his mansion on the hill. "One of the ticket agents recognized her from her picture…"

"Does he remember when he saw her?"

"It had to be the first week in December," Crowder replied, "'cause, get this, he invited her to the ballet… thought she looked like a patron of the arts."

With the wry arch of one cynical brow, he thought his boss sounded wistful as Vincent murmured, "The man has an eye. Blair adored the ballet. Once, when Baryshnikov was in town, she made me sit through the ballet three nights in a row… then dragged me to a Sunday matinee of 'Fire Bird'. That was very special."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Vincent," Crowder replied, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he slipped the photo into the inside pocket of his sport coat. "Look, I'm gonna check the dates on the ballet."

"Right," Vincent acknowledged, and his tone was back to business when he asked, "Does the agent remember where she was headed?"

"L.A. Only she didn't use her real name… told him her name was Kay somethin'," Crowder informed him, deeply glad to have a real lead after months of chasing his tail. "Now, it's gonna be expensive," he cautioned, "but he's gonna get us a copy of the flight manifest."

"Run down the name," Vincent directed sharply, as uncaring as ever about the costs of whatever he wanted. "I'm running out of time."

Crowder took the wad of gum from his mouth and stuck it under the ledge of the phone booth. "I'll call you when I get to L.A." Hanging up the phone, he made his way back to the ticket counter and the very helpful, if greedy, agent.

Needing to escape the cloyingly cheerful atmosphere in the house, Mark had slipped away to walk some of his tension off along the beach. He'd counted on the constancy and peace of the ocean to work its magic and sooth the frustration and, yes, anger, that just kept building and building until he'd felt he was suffocating. But the brisk walk hadn't helped. So he'd taken to skimming stones through the crests of the waves, focusing upon his technique with ruthless determination to stave off the urge to cast their verbal counterparts at Hardcase or, worse – at least until he had something more than unsubstantiated suspicions – at Kay.

Over the past two days, he'd tried, really tried, to set aside his misgivings about Hardcastle's determined march toward the nearest church. For one thing, he _wanted_ the old donkey to be happy, he honestly did. For another, whether the Judge married again, and who he chose to marry, was none of his business. And besides all that, he didn't want to be cast in the role of the grim Cassandra warning of a dire future, particularly when no one was the least bit interested in what he thought.

But he just couldn't shake the feeling that the whole thing was hinky. Too much just didn't add up right, or at all. Especially Kay. There was something about her, something that didn't ring true, despite her warm charm and innate gentleness, and her quick sense of humor. Who was she? Where had she come from? From her manner and the way she carried herself with unconscious assurance – much like Mark had seen in his professors, and the Judge himself – she was educated and she had the confidence that came with having wielded power of some kind. So what was she doing working in a women's clothing store?

_And another thing_, Mark thought, as he whipped another stone into the water, _'Kay' isn't her real name. _Or, at least, she sure didn't answer to it. Oh, she did fine when she was paying attention. But when she was preoccupied, she didn't hear her name, and needed to be called two or three times before she jerked and looked up and around with an expression of studied innocence, like a guilty kid caught stealing candy. Okay, so maybe she just got lost in thought, or concentrated really deeply on stuff, so that she became oblivious but … it happened just a bit too often for Mark not to feel the hackles rise on the back of his neck. It was a con. He could feel it in his bones. But why? Just to snag a rich husband? Or was there something more sinister going on? Like Hardcastle, he'd soon noted her nervous habit of checking over her shoulder every five minutes or so. What – or who – was she looking for? Or afraid of?

He heard the thump of feet on the timber cliff steps behind him, and the heavy tread told him it was Hardcastle, not her. Grimacing, not yet ready to return to the madhouse, he pretended he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone, and sent another stone skimming through the surf.

"What are you doing down here?" Hardcastle asked, sounding a little puzzled, but mostly impatient. "I told you Kay was on her way over. I want you two to spend some time together."

Mark exhaled slowly and whipped another stone across the tops of the waves before he turned, wishing he could as easily fling away his deep-seated aversion to everything that was happening. But he couldn't. And, from the displeasure radiating from Hardcastle, Milt was reading him like a book – and not liking the plot much.

Looking away, Mark shook his head at the futility of trying to pretend that everything was hunky-dory. "I'm sorry," he gusted, "but I can't take this." Returning his gaze to Hardcastle, meeting his friend's eyes, he grated, "You've spent the last couple of days acting like the social director on a cruise ship… McCormick, why don't you and Kay go to the market?" he mimicked harshly. "Kiddo, why don't you and Kay watch T.V.?"

Hardcastle gave him a dyspeptic look of ill-concealed frustration, and his voice was low with warning when he said, "She's gonna be part of our lives… you better get used to it."

Crossing his arms, refusing to be cowed, Mark asked pointedly, "What do you know about her?"

"I know all I need to know," Milt replied evenly, and Mark had to give him credit for at least trying to contain his temper.

"That she's having your baby," he retorted flatly, knowing he was pushing into dangerous territory, but unable to stop himself. Somebody had to say it, and it looked like that 'somebody' had to be him.

With exaggerated and cutting patience, Hardcastle explained, "I know, that may not mean much to someone of your generation, but I was brought up to take responsibility."

"Oh, I'm all for taking responsibility – doing the honorable thing – but…" He hesitated at the brink. Pressing his lips together, he tried to hold it back but then threw his arms up in defeat. "Alright, I gotta say it…" he forged on despite the warning glint in the Judge's steely gaze. Taking a deep breath, he challenged, "Judge, how do you know it's _your_ baby?"

As soon as the words were out, he knew he'd crossed the line. Hardcase flushed with anger, and his tone had gone from warning to outright anger as he demanded, "What do you mean, how do I _know_?"

"Well," he temporized, but then figured he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "Maybe Kay just told you she was pregnant."

"She's not that kind of lady, McCormick!" Milt flashed in umbrage, his fists bunching aggressively as he took a step closer.

Mark was heartily sick of the willful blinders, the complacent way in which Milt – for some reason he could _not_ fathom – was allowing himself to be led down the garden path with a guileless and wanton stupidity that Hardcase would have _raged_ over if their positions were reversed. Hell, it wasn't as if he _loved_ the woman – not once, _not once_, had Hardcase ever said he loved her, even when asked straight out.

And, deep down, so deep he didn't really want to acknowledge it, Mark was hurt that his best friend would side with a woman he hardly knew, rather than at least listen to him and grant some measure of credence to his concerns. Mark figured he'd earned that consideration, that trust. So to see Milt so ready to actually fight him physically for simply stating what was so ridiculously obvious was infuriating.

Fueled by hurt and a very real concern for the Judge's welfare, his simmering anger flared. All caution cast to the wind, when Milt stepped closer, his posture and demeanor so hostile as to be threatening, Mark faced off with him, and even took his own step forward to close the distance between them. Instead of backing down like he knew he should to give them both time cool off, Mark shouted in wounded exasperation, "You just met her! How do you know what she's like?"

"Because we're not talkin' about one of your beach bunny pickups!" Hardcastle roared as they squared up nose to nose, both of them digging in for a fight. "We're talkin' about a refined, educated, mature woman."

"Who probably knows a good thing when she sees it!" Mark insisted hotly, his gaze narrowing. So Milt had noticed she was educated, too – if he'd noticed that, then how could he be so damned blind to everything else? "Milton C. Hardcastle… eligible bachelor," he spit out, "retired jurist… _millionaire_!"

"She's not after my money if that's what you're thinkin'!" Hardcastle yelled, so fiercely adamant despite any real knowledge or proof that Mark thought the man was protesting just a little too much to be utterly credible. Caught by that thought, Mark suddenly wondered if the old donkey was as blind as he was letting on, or if he just found the truth too uncomfortable to acknowledge.

"Think about it, Judge," Mark goaded, his voice low and cold with warning, "before you walk down the aisle with a gold digger."

Erupting with rage, Hardcastle lunged forward to grab him by the collar with one fist, while he pulled his other fisted arm up and back with obvious intent to smash his face in. Certain that Milt was about to slug him, Mark stiffened and held his arms rigidly at his sides, readying himself for the punch that he vowed he wouldn't return. Sure, he could probably fend off the blow, and they'd end up wrestling in the sand. But if it was going to take the shock of actually striking him with unbridled fury – something Hardcastle had _never_ done – for Hardcase to come to his senses, so be it.

"_Stop it!_" Kay shouted as she grabbed Milt's arm, holding him back – trying to draw him away.

Startled by her unexpected appearance, both of them breathing heavy, they glared at each other for a taut moment. Mark wondered if Hardcastle was still going to go ahead and deck him. But he saw the blind fury fade from Milt's eyes, and the tension began to ease from their bodies as they pulled back a bit. Milt released his collar and patted it smooth, as if trying to pretend that nothing was badly wrong. Disgusted by the farce of it, too aware that what was wrong could not be so easily smoothed away, Mark jerked back from his touch.

"Kay… it's not what you think," Hardcastle prevaricated. "We were just horsin' around." But their very stances and expressions gave the lie away. They stood awkwardly, embarrassed by the rawness of their anger, uncomfortable with each other and with her.

Glancing between the two of them, her visage pale and her expression stark, Kay gave a short, tight shake of her head. "I heard everything," she told them, her effort to retain some measure of control painfully evident. She flicked a look at Mark and her gaze dropped, as if she was ashamed. "Mark, you don't have to worry about the Judge marrying me." Her lips tightened, and then she whispered hoarsely, on the edge of tears, "I'm leaving."

She turned back toward the steps up the cliff, but Milt grabbed her arm. "Like hell you are," he growled. Still holding onto her, he shot a hard look at Mark. "See what you started? Now apologize."

Her head down, her voice caught and broke as she quavered, "I think you should listen to Mark."

Mark was surprised by that – both the words and the tone of heartbreak – and he studied her thoughtfully, chewing on his lip as he tried to figure her out. But there was just too much he didn't know about her. Whatever game she was playing, she appeared genuinely distraught – but then, she could be a hell of an actress. Or maybe she was just scared and desperate, and had no other place of refuge, no other friends to turn to for help. But if that was the case, why didn't she just come clean with them, or at least with Hardcase? Whether she was faking it or not, when he looked at his friend, he could see that Milt was genuinely distressed, afraid she really was going to leave and … and it was very clear that Hardcastle didn't want that to happen. And there was the whole thing about the baby. Was it Milt's or not? If she left now, disappeared, and it was Milt's kid … Milt would never forgive him.

Sighing miserably, _knowing_ he was right that something was badly wrong, but also knowing this wasn't the time or place to make a stand, Mark said with genuine contrition, "Look, Kay, I apologize. Sometimes my Irish temper gets the better of me."

"You don't need to apologize," Kay assured him, but was still avoiding his eyes. Hardcase shot him a glare that said he'd better do a whole lot better than that.

"No, Hardcastle's right. You're not going anywhere," he insisted, and then cracked a wan grin. "We've never sent an expectant mother out into the cold and we're not about to start."

Hardcastle gave him a look of assessment, and then nodded, signaling that it was enough, at least for the moment. Mark quirked a rueful brow in return, mutely trying to convey that he wasn't trying to cause trouble so much as … but Milt turned away, uncaring about what Mark had been trying to do. An arm around her waist, Milt gently guided her back to the stairs, his gesture and proximity a clear statement about where he stood and just exactly who had his support.

Mark's jaw tightened and, his hands thrust into his jean pockets, he turned away to stare out at the ocean. If he had any sense, he'd just butt out of it. But … he looked back over his shoulder at Milt and watched him escort Kay up the steep steps. Milt _deserved_ to know the truth. Even if he wasn't admitting out loud that he had his own doubts, the Judge was too sharp, too savvy not to know that too much didn't add up. But the Lone Ranger had traded in his mask for a suit of shining armor, and seemed determined to rescue the maiden in distress.

Taking a deep breath, Mark told himself that it was up to him this time to get to the truth … even if it cost him so much that it hurt to think about it. He owed that man; owed him damned near everything that had any worth in his life. Whatever it took, whatever it cost, he had to figure out what was going on and who Kay really was. Milt's future depended upon it.

"I've got your back, Kemosabe," he murmured, his words lost to the low rush of the surf and the keening whistle of the wind. And then he looked up at the sky, to send up a prayer that the pain he might well cause by finding out the truth wouldn't rip them all apart.

The next evening, the party was in full swing – literally – with a four-piece band playing lively dance music in the living room, where the carpet had been rolled up and couples were cutting the light fantastic. Waiters – bearing trays of scrumptious delicacies or flutes of champagne – floated in a steady parade in and out of the kitchen through the dining room where a lavish buffet had been laid, to the hall, the living room and den that all thronged with lawyers, judges, cops and other assorted Hardcastle cronies and their companions, all decked out in their finest attire. Conversation and laughter rose in a babble of sound and it seemed everyone was having a fine time.

More than a bit bemused by it all, Mark had to give the Judge credit – Milt had sure pulled out all the stops to make this a night to remember. He snagged an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray and, stuffing it in his mouth, he returned his attention to the principal players in the show: the knight, who was laughing it up with a pair of judges at the far end of the room; and his lady fair, who was standing beside Mark, both of them at something of a loss for anything to say. With considerable relief, Mark spotted Frank edging his way through the crowd to join him and Kay in the middle of the den. Glancing down at Kay, he hoped his frustration wasn't showing at not having gotten any farther in figuring her out than he'd been the night before. If anything, he was more confused than ever.

Take this party, for example. Hardcase was making no bones about it being an engagement party – but Kay was distinctly uncomfortable with that, and still hadn't agreed to wear the Rock of Gibraltar that Hardcastle had bought for her. She _really_ didn't seem to be all that enthusiastic about rushing down any aisles – unless she was just playing 'hard to get' to the hilt. But her reticence seemed genuine and, if she really was hesitant about committing to marriage, Mark could almost feel sorry for her. Once Hardcase worked up a full head of steam and was bound and determined on a course of action, he was damned hard to stop. All in all, Mark was really interested to know what Frank thought about the situation – he badly needed an ally if he had any hope of finding out who Kay really was.

After he performed the introductions, Frank regarded Kay with friendly interest and asked, "Have you and Milt set a date?"

"Well," she replied with a glance at Mark, her smile just a trifle strained, "we're not officially engaged."

"Not yet anyway," Mark interjected with the wide smile he was doing his best to sustain, though the effort was beginning to hurt his cheeks.

Frank blinked in surprise. "But Milt told me this was an engagement party."

"Oh, I'm sure you know how Milt is," she rejoined, with a light laugh, her tone indulgent. "Always two steps ahead of everyone."

When, clearly puzzled, Frank looked from Kay to him for a few more road marks to help him through the conversation, Mark offered, "What Kay means is their plans are still kind of… indefinite."

"I see," Frank murmured, though from the questions Mark could see forming in his eyes, the astute detective had picked up on the vibes. But Frank rallied enough to turn back to Kay with a winning smile. He winked and teased, "Well, don't wait too long to pin him down. Hardcastle's a great catch."

When McCormick and Kay traded looks, Frank discreetly searched the crowd for a passing waiter. "Think I'll help myself to a few more hors d'oeuvres… have you tried the rumaki?" he asked, and then without waiting for an answer, added with hearty enthusiasm as he started to turn away, "They're terrific." As if realizing his abrupt retreat might be unseemly, he hesitated and asked, "Get either of you anything?"

"No, thanks," Kay replied.

Mark simply shook his head, his gaze returning to Kay when Frank smiled and eased away.

Leaning slightly toward him, her voice lowered to escape being overheard by the people around them, Kay murmured, "Thank you."

Quirking a brow, Mark asked, "For what?"

"For making an awkward situation less awkward," she replied with a sigh.

Reflecting again that he'd seldom seen a less eager bride, Mark nodded. But he felt bound to clarify, "I'm only looking out for Hardcastle."

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," she observed, and she really did sound sincere.

"Yeah, he is," Mark agreed, making no bones about it. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Milt – except, maybe, stand aside and watch his best friend throw his life away. He and Kay might not be enemies, but they were far from being friends. With a note of warning in his low tone, he added, "And as his friend, I'll do anything to make sure he doesn't get hurt." She held his gaze a moment and he thought she was on the verge of saying something more, but she only bit her lip and looked away.

Beaming from ear to ear, Hardcastle cut through the crowd to slap Mark on the back and slip an arm around Kay's shoulders. "Glad to see you two getting' along so well," he approved heartily. Unwilling to make an issue of it in the middle of the party, Mark contented himself with a thin-lipped smile, and noticed that Kay wasn't any more forthcoming than he was on the subject of their apparent detente. Not seeming to notice, intent upon his own plans, Milt asked, "You don't mind if I steal Kay away for a minute?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I think we finished our conversation."

Kay gave him a look rich with entreaty, but allowed Hardcastle to steer her across the room and out the door.

Very much startled by the distinct impression that Kay seemed to think he was some kind of ally, a source of help in fending off the juggernaut that Hardcastle had become about this whole wedding business, McCormick watched them move across the room. He was so preoccupied by the strangeness of it all that he didn't notice Frank's approach until he mumbled around a bite, "Mark, you should really try one of these rumakis…"

"Later, Frank," Mark muttered, and set his drink on the mantle before following them from the room. Behind him, Frank's affable façade dissolved into concern.

Milt deftly maneuvered Kay through the crowd, into the kitchen and out onto the patio. Through the open windows, Mark could clearly see and hear that, as soon as they got outside, Kay put a hand on his chest to slow him down. "Milt, we have to talk… and," she looked around, confused and apparently unsettled to see they were alone, "what about your guests?"

"They can take care of themselves," he replied, waving off both her concern and her desire for conversation as he continued to hasten her around the corner toward the pool. "C'mon."

Mark followed them outside, but kept a discreet distance when he saw that Matt Arnold, a photographer he and Hardcastle knew from the L.A. Times, had his camera equipment laid out on the table beside the pool. Hardcase was hustling Kay closer when Matt looked up and, sounding harried, said, "Judge, we're going to have to hurry this up. I gotta be back in Beverly Hills to cover some rock video awards banquet."

"Ready whenever you are," Milt assured him magnanimously.

"Ready for what?" Kay demanded, sounding distinctly alarmed.

"To have our picture taken," Milt replied with an expansive gesture at the camera Matt had picked up and was already fiddling with, adjusting the lens as he focused it on them.

Mark's gaze narrowed as he watched Kay try to pull away from Milt's firm embrace, and she sure sounded panicked when she protested, "I take a terrible picture."

Laughing, apparently oblivious to her distress, Milt teased, "Someone as pretty as you _has_ to be photogenic."

"Not to worry, everybody looks great in my stills," Matt assured her, as he continued to adjust the focus. "I happen to be a prize-winning photojournalist, thanks to the Judge and some 'stories' he sent my way."

"And that's why you're gonna make _sure_ this picture makes the papers," Milt returned, sounding jovial, but Mark heard the edge and knew he wasn't kidding.

It looked like Kay knew it, too. "I can't have my picture is the paper," she insisted, looking frantically from one man to another.

"I can't promise front page," Matt said to Milt, ignoring her protests.

"Try the Society page," Milt suggested, also apparently oblivious to her distress.

Matt nodded. "And maybe 'Metro'."

"You owe me," Milt reminded him, but then softened his dictatorial tone as he gazed fondly at Kay. "Besides, this is only the second time I ever met somebody I'm really proud of."

Mark couldn't believe the other two men were so incredibly cavalier about her protests and, for a moment, he was wondering if she was going to burst into tears or faint dead away from what looked to him like terror. She was struggling to pull away, saying, "No, no," but they were paying her no heed. Mark didn't know whether to feel sorry for her, or maybe even try to rescue her. But … one thing was very, very clear to him, if not to Hardcase. That woman was _deathly_ afraid of having her picture taken.

And that meant that he was right. She had something to hide. Something damned serious by the way she was trying to escape Milt's firm embrace.

"No," she protested once again.

"Say 'happily ever after'!" Matt directed with professional enthusiasm.

The camera clicked, the flash popped.

Mark scowled as he pondered the stricken expression on Kay's face. Yep. The woman was terrified, all right. What the hell kind of trouble was she in? And how soon would that photo bring the trouble down on Hardcastle?

And how could Hardcase not see it?

Or, more to the point, maybe, why was he absolutely refusing to see anything he didn't want to see?

The next morning, the photograph of retired Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle, and his bride-to-be, Kay Phillips, was prominently displayed on the Society page of the L.A. Times.

Vincent's jaw tightened as he studied the photo, and he shook his head. "Photographs never did you justice," he muttered in disgust, before tossing the newspaper onto his desk.

Scrunched down in the Coyote, Mark grimly watched the apartment building's parking lot from across the street, his gaze occasionally flicking to the photo on the newspaper folded on the seat beside him. Chewing on his lip, he thought again about how scared she'd been, how hard she'd tried to resist having the picture taken, and he frowned as he wondered if whoever it was she was afraid of had already seen it.

When she appeared through the archway from the inner courtyard, he slid down further, his gaze tracking her until she was in her car and driving away. Sliding out of the car, he sauntered casually across the street and under the arch. In moments, he was at her door. While glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he drew on a pair of gloves and pulled his leather case of picks from his back pocket, eyed the lock and selected the tool he needed. Between one breath and the next, he had the door open and was moving inside. Closing it carefully behind him, he took a moment to listen, and then he moved further inside.

Once in the living room, he gave the sofa and chairs barely a glance beyond noting the good quality leather – quality a store clerk in even the most exclusive of boutiques couldn't afford – and headed directly to the bookshelf. The novels and magazines weren't unusual, but he was surprised to see several medical texts. Puzzled, he moved into the bedroom and opened the closet door. A quick glance sufficed to show that it contained only a woman's clothing, some garments with the price tags still hanging from their sleeves, and several pairs of shoes, almost all of them looking brand new. Wherever she'd lived before, she hadn't had time to pack before moving on.

Turning to the desk under the window, he rummaged through the drawers, not finding anything of particular interest until he came across an official looking document. Drawing it out and tilting toward the light streaming in through the window, he saw it was a medical license for someone named Blair McKenzie, surgeon, San Francisco General Hospital.

Puzzled, he recalled the medical texts in the bookcase … who the heck was this Dr. Blair McKenzie?

Briefly, he debated whether to take the document with him or leave it where he'd found it. Telling himself he could always come back and replace it later, he held onto it and started to slide the drawer closed. But it stuck partway and he had to give it a good shove, which rattled the ashtray sitting on the desk.

Ashtray? He didn't think Kay smoked.

And he sure couldn't imagine her smoking the two cigars that were butted in the glass receptacle.

He _knew_ Milt didn't smoke.

Staring at the butts dyspeptically, he felt a surge of anger to know that she was entertaining a man other than Hardcastle in her bedroom. But his throat tightened with regret at the thought of how Milt would feel about being betrayed like this.

Wheeling around, he went back through the apartment, locking the door behind him before he jogged out to the street and the Coyote. Two cigar butts in the bedroom were suggestive, but only circumstantial. There'd been nothing other than the medical license and books to suggest that anyone but Kay lived in the place. Hardcase was too entrenched in his gentleman act of protecting the lady to believe the butts meant anything – he'd shrug it off, say it was probably some maintenance man in to fix the plumbing, or whatever.

Mark knew he needed more, but the sneaking around was leaving a very bad taste in his mouth. Part of him had hoped, for Milt's sake, he'd been wrong, that Kay was no more than she appeared to be – a decent, kind, hardworking woman who could make Milt happy. Instead, he was more and more certain that she was hiding a whole lot, including the presence of another man in her bedroom. Swallowing hard, Mark felt sick with the knowledge that what he was finding out was going to badly hurt Hardcastle. God, he'd give nearly anything not to have to be the one who had to do that to Milt. But, better him than anyone else. Hardcase wouldn't want anyone else to know she was making a fool of him. There was no way around it. He had to tell his friend what he'd found.

Man, Hardcase was going to kill him when he found out about the unauthorized surveillance, let alone the B&E. Taking a deep breath, Mark knew he needed more proof to _make_ Hardcastle listen to him and not just deny everything in a fit of defensive rage. The circumstantial stuff wasn't enough, not to convince Hardcase when his mind was already made up.

But maybe it was enough to shake Kay up, and get her to spill the rest of it.

Nodding to himself, he decided it was time to take the gloves off and have it out with her, confront her with what he'd found and his questions. Pulling away from the curb, he drove to the exclusive women's apparel shop in Santa Monica. Anxious to get it over with, the perpetual rush hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic slowed him far more than he liked. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. Frustrated and beyond irritable, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried to contain his impatience. The journey seemed to take forever and it was nearly two hours later before he was finally driving past the shop, and lucked into a parking slot about a block away. Trying to contain his anger, knowing it would do no good to blow up in public, he determinedly strode back down the street.

He'd never been inside the shop; the store was a little too high-end for his pathetic bank account, the rich designer silk garments targeted toward the rich and famous. The place even smelled expensive. Feeling decidedly out of place, he looked around for Kay but didn't see her – he did note that an older woman he presumed was the manager was eying him with a degree of distaste that Mark figured wasn't particularly personal and was more a commentary on his obvious impoverishment. Reminding himself of the righteousness of his mission, he stepped smartly to the counter. "I'm looking for Kay Phillips. Is she here today?"

The manager didn't seem pleased that someone so shabbily dressed was trying to cut into an employee's work time. "Kay's not on the floor," she replied frostily, and then added with obvious reluctance when Mark didn't immediately skulk away, "but I could check the stock room."

"I'd appreciate that, thanks," Mark replied with as much agreeable gratitude as he could muster.

Stiff with annoyance, the woman was turning away when a tall, solidly-built man entered the boutique and muscled his way around McCormick. Not in the mood to be pushed around, Mark nearly said something but he froze when he noticed the guy was holding a cigar in one meaty hand. It had been a long time since Mark had believed in coincidences and two cigar smoking dudes who knew Kay were one too many. Suspicious, he studied the man – tall, heavy set, but it all looked like muscle, slightly receding hairline and well-trimmed, short blond hair, an off-the-rack dark suit and tie; maybe forty, give or take a year or two. He didn't look like a surgeon … but then, Mark wasn't sure he knew what a surgeon was supposed to look like. He did look arrogant, like someone who was used to people taking his orders.

"Excuse me," the stranger said to the manager, his abrupt tone holding no apology. "I'm looking for Kay Phillips." But the words were barely out of his mouth when Kay came through the door in the far back corner. "I see her, thanks," he said and strode with an air of authority across the store.

Mark quickly ducked behind a rack of dresses, to see if what happened next would give him any clues about the mystery man – the man he was sure had been smoking cigars in her bedroom. Peering between the garments, he could see the man take Kay's arm, but they were talking too quietly for him to overhear what they were saying. Grimacing in annoyance, he saw Kay nod and then lead the way back to the counter. Ducking down further to avoid detection, he could no longer see her, but he heard her say, "I'm going to lunch."

_Pretty early lunch, _Mark thought as he hazarded a peek around the dresses and saw Kay holding her purse, the stranger waiting for her.

The prissy manager was scanning the store and saying, "There was someone asking for you." Mark jerked back and held his breath until the woman went on, "I don't see him now. I guess it wasn't important."

"I'll see you later then," Kay replied pleasantly. Shifting position to the other end of the rack, Mark watched the two of them leave the store, the stranger lightly holding Kay's arm in a distinctly proprietary way.

He felt so angry, so … so _furiously_ angry on Hardcastle's behalf. Milt was being so good to her, wanted so badly to help her – hell, was willing to spend the rest of his life looking after her and the baby she was going to have. The poor guy really believed the kid was his.

But it looked like the bitch was nothing more than a lying, two-timing gold-digger after all.

Mark wished he could believe that Milt would be glad to know the truth. But he was sorely afraid that he was about to break his best friend's heart.

And that made him sick to his soul.


End file.
